She rang again with the same result. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. "To me?" gasped Winifred. “Hainault, Celeste’s friend. I throw up work—everything! I just teach in one school, one good school, three days a week. I have—run away. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. . She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. But she has let fall enough for me to understand that she knows about her father’s misdeeds. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe.
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